Chapter 16 Brooding Dark Greys.
GINGER:
“How does the conflict surrounding the Earnshaw Estate reflect the ideals of society in relation to the classism it hides in plain sight?”
I'm currently seated in AP English Lit. class, front row middle seat to be exact, listening to Mr Jamieson give his take on the study material he personally distributed round our desks less than forty minutes ago. But my mind is far from here.
Ever since Letisha and Kaia broke the news of their mother's decision to have them transferred here for the rest of our school year, I haven’t been able to stay put.
“It's still more of a thought in her mind at this point,” Tisha had rushed out, quick to downplay the good news, “but we heard her discussing it with your mother the evening you left.”
“My mother?” I repeated dumbly, watching them nod in response.
Why hadn't she mentioned it? Did she intend it as a surprise, or was that just another thing she ‘hadn't found the time’ to tell me?
The more I mull it over, the more annoying it sounds.
A large pointer lands on my desk, the sound sharp and damning, snapping me back to reality. My back lurches forward with a jolt, heart sinking on tracing that short cane to a larger hand with its sleeves rolled back in a professional manner.
Mr Jamieson stands before me, eyes narrowed. “Glad to see you're back with us, Miss Mikaelson,” he says.
Muted snickers scatter across the classroom from the back.
“Care to explain what's running free in that creative mind of yours?”
My face burns with embarrassment. “No, sir.”
“Very well then, how about you share with the class your raw views on how seriously the late Brontë pushes the boundaries between love and lust versus ashes and vengeance in her breakout novel?”
More laughter.
I grab my copy of Wuthering Heights off the desk and walk to the front, sending thanks to the moon goddess for giving me an easy one. I don't use the book, just explain how much I think Heathcliff's desire for revenge trumps his attraction to Catherine, and for good reason too. Because as a product born and shaped by hate, he's fighting for far more than her heart. He's addressing the errors in everyday society—some of which still exist till today—by systematically taking down the forces responsible for separating him from the woman he loves.
I don't realize how deep I’ve gotten into the topic till Mr Jamieson snaps his fingers in my face.
“Ginger.” He's frowning, genuinely concerned. When did he get so close? “Are you okay?”
I blink, stunned—and only then do I feel it.
A drop of water. On my right cheek.
I'd been crying.
In front of the entire class.
Gods.
Everyone is silent, watching me. Some with confused and unsure glances, others with an almost unsettling amount of curiosity. The rest are stuck somewhere between admiration and a mental decision to freak ban me. But there's only one pair of eyes that actually makes my breath stutter.
Third seat to the back, center desk. Brooding dark greys.
The same ones I had unwittingly been staring into even before my brain caught up.
“Okay, it seems that would be all for now.” Mr Jamieson breaks the silence. “Thank you for that fresh perspective on Heathcliff’s motives, Mikaelson. It was really… Profound. You may return to your seat.”
I clean my cheek on the way back, risking yet another glance at Grayson.
His shoulders are rigid, expression ice. Fury blooms beneath his gaze, and I have no doubt in the world it's directed at me.
After all, I'd just managed to make our entire literary material about us. Codedly using Heathcliff to call him out before everyone.
I almost think he's gotten my message, but as I dive for my chair, I see Katelyn lean over from her place next to him, showing him something on her phone. Like clockwork, his attention diverts to her and I feel frustration rise in my throat. Loud and feral.
My eyes dart to the timepiece on the far end of the wall, counting the seconds till I can be out of here and on my way to visit Jayden.
Five minutes. Just five more minutes and I won't have to stay here anymore.
The final bell rings, signifying the end of classes, and I immediately grab my bag, ready to bolt, when Mr Jamieson calls me back.
“Mikaelson, a word?”
I suppress a groan, watching the classroom empty, but I make my way to his table all the same.
Mr Jamieson reclines in his chair, eyeing me like he's trying to assess the state of my mental health. I should be offended, but I really can't blame him for checking, so I settle for clearing my throat instead.
“Sorry.” He sits up, adjusting his glasses. I can tell he's trying to pick his words carefully. “About earlier… I want to be sure. Is everything… alright?”
“Yes sir, I just got swept up in the text.”
“Oh? I hadn't realized you had such passion for the arts.”
“I dabble.”
I am lying through my teeth, but I'd rather chew on barbed wires than explain my part embarrassing, part non-existent love life to my literature teacher who—by the way—is already looking at me weird.
“Say… How would you like to earn some extra credits?” he asks.
Now it's my turn to be surprised.
“You’re serious?” I say. “What do I need to do?”
“There's someone I need you to help tutor.”
An uneasy feeling takes root in me. “Who is it?”
He hesitates barely a second, then raises a finger and begins opening the drawers next to him. I wait while he ruffles through papers and documents till he finds the one he's looking for.
He drops a yellow file on his desk, flipping open the first page. Right there on the passport photograph front and center is a face I know all too well.
“What, you mean Jayden?” I choke. “Absolutely not. That boy's already ahead of me on the curriculum.”
I may have made the commitment to check on him, but that's just out of pure courtesy, and maybe guilt. I'm not crazy enough to give the devil an even bigger headstart.
“I understand why you might be averse to the idea, and I'm sorry to even ask it of you. But Mr Rivera's father already phoned the school this morning to drop a complaint about his son's health.” His voice is grim. “Apparently, Jayden was involved in a serious fight on school grounds yesterday, and now he’s considering withdrawing him.”
“That's… awful.”
“Yeah, we offered to send a representative to tutor his son by way of an apology. He didn't budge initially. Only condition he gave short of punishing the student responsible was that it had to be you.”
“Me?” I ask. “Why me?”
“Because his son claimed he got beat up trying to protect you.”